


slow like honey

by crackthesky



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackthesky/pseuds/crackthesky
Summary: summer, you think, is all wet, indolent heat, and you have always reveled in it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 245
Collections: Explicit Stories





	slow like honey

The honey wine is thick on your tongue.

It tastes of summer days, rich with golden sunshine and edged with a dizzying heat, with a soft touch of the sticky sweetness of night-blooming flowers. Summer itself has settled over the city, all syrupy, humid air hanging heavy against your skin, leaving a sheen of sweat behind that catches the flickering candlelight. 

The wine drapes over you, trailing little glimmers of sensation in its wake. A flash of bone white catches your eye, and everything goes heavy, the breath before a storm. You meet Geralt’s gaze - those eyes darkening now, the very corner of his lips lilting with something hungry - and the air crackles. 

You smile over the rim of your wine goblet, licking at a stray drop that trickles down the side. “Fuck,” he mutters, and then his mouth is hungry on yours, his large hands cradling your head. You part your lips with a light laugh, setting your goblet down so that you can weave your hands into his hair, the white strands spilling through your fingers like fresh snowfall. 

One of his hands drops to your waist and tightens, pulling you up just enough to press against him, the thin material of your nightdress going taut over the map of your body. 

“Summer,” Geralt breathes against your lips, his voice gone to gravel, “is far too good a look on you. It’s distracting.”

Summer brings the indolence out in you, all lazy, sunlit mornings and herb-scented baths that you linger in until the water is stone cold, the promise tucked into the corner of your lips as you rise from the water a temptation all its own. Nights pass like slow honey, the cooling air a blessing against your bare skin, the cloying scent of honeysuckle heady on the breeze. 

“Ah,” you murmur. “I shall strive to look worse.”

“I’d prefer to just keep you in bed,” Geralt says.

He kisses any reply you might have out of you, teases your words away with his lips and tongue, his stubble scraping softly against your cheek. Heat blooms, low in your stomach, the edges of it made more robust by the wine’s soft touch. You gasp into his mouth, feel the pleased tilt of his lips against yours, and catch his bottom lip with your teeth, grazing against the soft, delicate flesh.

The sound that rumbles from Geralt makes something in you go tight. He pushes harder into the kiss, like he cannot get enough, and you press in close against him, feel the heat of his broad form soak through your thin nightshirt.

Geralt kisses his way across your jawline, nipping at the junction of your jaw and neck, the soft prick of pain melting down your spine. You tilt your head back with a lazy hum as he lays a biting kiss on the side of your neck. His large hand trails down, leaving smoldering embers in its wake, and your thin nightdress crinkles as he bunches the hem of it in one hand.

“Geralt,” you murmur, running a thumb over his cheekbone. He turns into the touch so that your thumb grazes over his lips. You feel just the slightest hint of his teeth. You suck in a sharp breath and pull him back to your mouth, drink from his lips. You wonder if you are sweet with wine to him. 

His hand slides up your stomach to cup your breast, his fingers warm and firm against you, his thumb stroking circles around your nipple as it tightens, pebbling under the thin cotton separating your skin from his. The rasp of fabric bolsters the feeling, sends electricity sparking down your spine. The moan that slips from you makes Geralt’s hand tighten, his fingers flexing on your breast. 

You set your teeth against his neck, suck marks into the column of his thick, pale throat. 

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts.

You can still feel his hand hovering near your hip, your hem caught in his fist, his knuckles pressed against your skin. The summer air swirls up against you as he bares more of it, his mouth greedy against the salt of your skin. 

The nightdress hadn’t been much of an obstacle to begin with, a flimsy thing made of thin fabric, something worn only for a hint of modesty in summer’s sweltering nights, but Geralt strips it from you as if it had been armor. As it flutters to the ground, he pushes you back against the bed. 

You sink into it with a laugh, but the sound fades into a sigh as Geralt smoothes a hand up your thigh, his thumb skating across the crease in your thigh as his fingers splay across your hip. He presses a kiss against your hip bone, just a hint of teeth peeking between his lips, and your breath hitches.

Geralt rises to loom over you, his arms caging you in against the bed. Like this, he is consuming, his broad frame filling your world, leaving nothing but him. His white hair falls like a curtain as he leans down to kiss you, the pearly strands separating you and him from the rest of the world. You arch up into the kiss, meet him with teeth and tongue and want.

“You’re slow tonight,” you murmur against him, lips tilting up at the corners. Geralt tends towards wildfire, kindling pleasure with teeth and tongue and fingers as flint until it catches and burns, spreading fast. 

A chuckle rumbles through him. “It’s summer,” he tells you. “And what is it you like so much about summer, again?”

You press a kiss against his jawline and slide a hand under his shirt, skating your fingertips over the hard planes of his stomach, ignoring the constellations of scars mapped over his skin. He seems to like it better that way. “Summer,” you breathe, running your thumb over his nipple and raising your head to catch his mouth once more, “is wet, and slow, and full of heat.”

His chest heaves beneath your hand; his heart is not pounding, but you have learned enough about a Witcher’s heartbeat to recognize when you’ve managed to elevate it. You reach for the laces of his breeches, but he nudges you away.

“Heat,” Geralt muses, dragging a thumb along the crease of your hip, dropping a kiss on your collarbone, the swell of your breast, grazing his teeth along your stomach. You whine. Each touch is an ignited ember, heat flaring out around each point of contact, but they are fleeting glances of his skin against yours. 

“Slow,” he says, his hair trailing against your stomach in a ghostly touch as he cups your cunt with one hand, the heel of his palm providing only the slightest hint of pressure. You roll against him, the pleasure that’s been simmering just beneath your skin sparking up into something stronger. He stills there, pinning your hips down with his other arm slung low over your torso as they try to rise, and the kiss he presses low on your hip feels smug. 

“Geralt.”

He peers up at you, the candlelight casting shadows that sharpen his features, his jawline cut from stone in the low light. His amber eyes are dark and warm, like sunlight filtering through whisky. The low laugh that slips from him stirs against the delicate skin just above your cunt. 

“Wet,” Geralt hums, and then his tongue is tracing across your skin, the path meandering low. You hiss out a breath and arch, but he keeps you pinned in place with a simple flex of his arm. The hand cupping you shifts, spreads you, and his fingertips find you slick, slick, slick. 

“And you are so wet,” he murmurs, lips curving into a pleased smirk against your skin.

You choke on your retort as he finally dips his mouth to your cunt, the tip of his tongue teasing you apart to flicker against your clit. The heat of his mouth settles into the marrow of you, sends flames skittering through your bones until the burn of the pleasure settles at the bottom of your spine.

His mouth is heavy on you, each lick at the core of you languid, the flat of his tongue sweeping through your cunt and collecting your slick. 

“Fuck, Geralt!”

He grunts as you fist a hand in his white locks, wrapping the thick, ivory strands around your fingers and tugging. His tongue is clever. He knows you well, too, knows the way your hips flex before they try to push up, knows to press tight, firm circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue before sliding the blade of his tongue down and into you. 

You twist beneath him as he works you, and fuck, when he glances up at you, his eyes finding yours over your heaving chest - his mouth urgent now, the red slick of his lips catching the firelight just right, the sheen of them obscene in the low light - you draw in a breath through your teeth, your thighs tensing around his head. 

Geralt tightens his grip on you. You can see the play of muscles in his shoulders, in his arms, his massive form rippling as he holds you in place. The moan trickles out of you as he presses a thick finger into you, your cunt clenching around him as he stretches you open. He scrapes his teeth over your cunt with delicacy, sucks at you, and the summer’s heat has faded now, is nothing compared to the sweltering flush of pleasure twining through you. You can feel the hair at your nape sticking against your skin as you arch, fingers tightening against Geralt’s skull and pulling him closer, pressing your head back against the bed, straining your neck as you gasp.

Another finger slides into you, and Geralt laps at where he’s spreading you wide. You flutter around him, and the curse that leaves him is guttural, the gravel of it vibrating against your wet cunt. 

He twists his thick fingers, curves them in the way you like, and his lips return to you, wrap around your clit as he sucks until your legs are shaking against him. 

“Please,” you find yourself saying, as your muscles tremble, as you clench around him, your fingers so tight in his hair that the strands are indenting your flesh. “Geralt.”

“Fuck,” he rumbles. “Fuck, you are always so good.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Geralt thrusts his fingers hard, once, twice, and works your clit with his mouth until lightning strikes home, crackling across your nerves with white heat. The sound you make as you come is filthily indulgent, all smoke and salt, and the sound it tears out of Geralt in return makes you shudder.

He keeps his mouth steady on you, gentler now, his tongue easing you through your orgasm. You hiss as the pleasure rolls into something sharp-edged, prickling at the edge of pain, and Geralt pulls away as your fingers flex in your hair. 

He presses a kiss against your inner thigh and slinks back up the bed to you - his shirt and breeches rasping against your skin as he moves, the bulge in his breeches pressing briefly against your cunt - as you prop yourself up on your elbows, chest still heaving. Geralt settles down next to you. You meet his kiss and taste yourself, a sharp tang against the lingering sweetness of the honey wine. It’s a languid kiss, Geralt mapping your mouth out once more.

“Gods,” you mutter when he finally pulls away, reaching out with a trembling hand for your goblet. “You’re not even undressed.”

Geralt chuckles, low and deep. He watches as you drink deeply from the goblet, the honey wine sweet and refreshing. You toss the goblet somewhere onto the bed after draining it and reach for the laces of his breeches. He catches you before you can undo them and swings himself over you.

You huff your irritation and glance up at him. 

“You’ve drunk your fill, I think,” Geralt says, his eyes dark. He strokes a thumb across your knuckles before dropping your hand and gently pushing you flat against the bed once more. He bends down, his hair raising goosebumps in its wake as it trails gently over your skin, hooks his thick arms around your thighs, and heaves you higher on the bed. You yelp in surprise, the sound pulled out of you. He grunts, amused, and noses against your hip bone, his tongue darting out to skim along your skin. You suck in a breath through your teeth. 

“You’ve drunk your fill,” Geralt says again, gazing up at you with those honey eyes, his mouth just above your cunt, his lips still red and shining wet, and you feel yourself clench. 

“But I am still thirsty.”

**Author's Note:**

> tryin' to get less rusty at smut/get better at it since it's been a long time! and it may be winter but there's something about the sultry heat of a summer night. 
> 
> the urban flora ep from alina baraz and galimatias - a fav - was on repeat while i was writing this.
> 
> also it always takes every fiber of my soul to not go tag wild on a fic, but i just try to think of the poor tag wranglers. there were...so many tags i wanted on this that it really doesn't _need_.


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